A Breeze on a Windless Sea
by Lothloriel
Summary: Who was it that starved himself so that an infant Cor would live? Who cared for him in a tiny open boat, and why? One-shot, pre-HHB.


_**This world and its inhabitants belong to C.S. Lewis. I am borrowing them for my own amusement and will return them unharmed.**_

**8ooo8ooo8ooo8**

The child does not cry.

Two days, it has been. Two days since Lord Bar threw this child into my arms, as the Archenlanders fought as if the demons of all Narnia possessed them, as I heard the cries of my fellow Calormene dying about me. Two days since I fled in this boat.

My name is Emeth Tarkaan, son of Erthan Tarkaan, son of Ritha Tarkaan, son of Kythar Tisroc, may he live with Tash forever. I know not who may find this record of my doings nor what purpose it may serve, but I cannot perish thus, with no man knowing the truth.

Know then, most honorable stranger, that I am of right honorable descent, being fourth from the line of the Tash-blessed Tisrocs, may they live forever, and a Tarkaan of Calormen. Being but a day departed from Archenland by sea, on a secret mission to rescue the Lord Bar (who though a pale barbarian worships Tash with a truly educated mind, and serves the Tisroc, may he live forever), we were pursued by the greatest galleon in Archenland's fleet. They pursued us for six days, and on the seventh it was seen that we should never outrun them, try as we may. Though every man would sell his life at a high price, the battle was without hope. When this was seen I hoped for no more than to take as many Archenlanders as I might to lay before the feet of Tash, but it seemed that the gods had other plans for me.

As I readied myself for battle, I was seized by the white barbarian Lord. This child was thrust into my arms, and with no instruction other, the Lord ordered us into this boat and cast us loose.

We have water skins enough for perhaps seven days, and bread for half that space. Though this child should still drink his mother's milk, he drinks the little water I manage to squeeze into his mouth, and sucks the damp crusts I offer him. Then he lies quietly in his wrappings, staring at me with eyes strangely like my own son, my Ement.

_Five days._

It is a full hand of days now since I have been in this rowboat, alone but for the infant. I find that speaking aloud, even to this barbarian child, soothes my mind and eases my heart as I leave this record.

I have calculated our direction as best I may, and. we seem to be on a course for Calormene sands, if the stars and my own reckonings do not lie. Though our course is correct, we have gone five days with no sight of anything but ourselves and this accursed flat sea. I have little hope of reaching land before our water gives out, and have begun to death-ration, taking as little as will keep my soul in my body.

Oh my homeland, I have never thought to end this way. Tash, my god, show me a way to save this child and myself. Tash, great god, offer your blessings this day. Tash, great god...

_Seven days._

This day I caught a bird of the sea. I laid very still, and the child beside me made no stir or cry, weak as he is, and the carrion bird swooped as if he thought to take out my eyes. Tash blessed my arms,  
and in one leap I caught the beast and broke its neck. I pray that Tash forgives me for this sin, but I drank the blood of the bird, sharing alike with the child.

Though the child is a white, accursed barbarian, my heart has softened toward him. He is brave, this foreign child. Though his soft skin is burnt red from the sun and his lips, like mine, are parched and dry, he does not weep or cry out. He does little, in fact, but eat when it is offered, cry to tell me that (I count it a woman's task, but I have grown accustomed to it these last days) he has soiled himself, and at night, lies awake and watches the stars slip across the sky.

I think of my own son, my Ement. He is near three summers now, and soon will leave his mother's side to begin the training of men. I weep like a woman to think I will not see him grow to manhood, nor watch his mother, my Alisheve, grow sweetly round with my seed, sit by my side in Tashbaan at the feasts of the Tisroc (may he live for ever), or ever again breathe the sweet scent of her skin.

Oh Tash, I will face my death as your servant, and as a man. I do not fear to die, having served you well and faithfully all my days. But my heart grieves for this child, to die before he sees his first day of birth celebrated. Such bravery in one so young should not perish! I hope with all my soul that we yet may reach land in time for him to be saved, but my hope grows thin.

_Ten days._

It is now the sixth day without food, and this day I have given the last drop of water to the infant. Last night, I worked our position yet again, and for the first time I have a thread of real hope. If I have not erred, we look to be less than three days from Calormene shores. If Tash continues to bless us, and I may catch another bird, we may yet live to see land!

_Twelve days._

I can barely muster the strength to write this, but I am reluctant to leave this record incomplete. Unless my eyes deceive me, there is land! It is but a faint grey line, miles away across the horizon, but it does not move or change. I have great hope that life will still be in the child, at least, though it will be a bitter end yet if this land is uninhabited, as some of the further stretches of coast are.

Oh Tash, smile on your servant in his last days. Speed the boat to shore, and send some fisherman or the like to spy it. Oh Tash, send rain that we may drink, send sleep that we may not see our deaths come upon us.

I cradle the child in my arms, crying out to Tash, speaking every prayer and invocation I know to intercede for his life. Strange, that this white child should have grown so dear to me, but I will gladly perish that he may live. I hope only that somehow, someday, Ement may know how his father died. I smell a scent of jasmine on the wind, and my heart swells with thoughts of Alisheve.

Tash, great god, spare your servant in his extremity. Glorious Tash, smile upon us...

**8ooo8ooo8ooo8**

In the third hour of the morning on the thirteenth day since the battle, a old fisherman named Arsheesh wandered the shore, unable to sleep. He found a small boat washed ashore. In it was the body of Emeth Tarkaan, still warm, and a white barbarian child, weak but living.

It is told in other places how that child grew to become Prince Cor of Archenland. Some time after those events, the Prince returned to the fisherman's hut where he grew up. Questioning of the fisherman Arsheesh led to the discovery of the boat that the infant Prince washed ashore in. Carved deeply in the side of the boat were the words of Emeth, telling how he starved himself to keep Cor alive.

The name of Emeth is yet a name of honor in Narnia, though Cor is long perished, and the boat remains in the royal treasury of Archenland as a reminder of the great mercies of Aslan.

**8ooo8ooo8ooo8**

_**Note: **__All names you don't recognize are entirely my own. Emeth, of course, is the name of the Calormene who survives the door to the Stable in the Last Battle. He would be over 200th in descent from this Emeth. _


End file.
